


Something Real

by orphan_account



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Athos tries and fails to get with somebody, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos and Porthos return to Earth on leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Real

**Author's Note:**

> ATHOS! Subtitle: Nobody Loves Me

A week of leave, a  _week_ , and his father had roped him into attending every bullshit event he had gotten an invite to, parading him around as though he were a prized show horse.

"He's back from the war," his father said to everyone who would listen, clenching Remy's shoulder and dragging him forward to be patted and praised. His parents had put together this party as soon as they'd heard Remy had time off, inviting everyone Remy didn't know or give a shit about, passing it off as a welcome home present as opposed to a superfluous opportunity for his mother to plan and decorate and get all dolled up. "Given a bit of leave," his father continued, one hand keeping Remy in place, the other wrapped firmly around a glass of his favorite bourbon.

"The Alliance can afford to give you time off?" a voice asked from somewhere to Remy's left. "Must not be so important, eh, brother?"

Remy stiffened, tried to pretend that he wasn't the butt of another one of Eric's jokes, tried to pretend that the women around him hadn't begun to titter. Eric just laughed and clapped a hand against Remy's back. "Just a joke, big brother."

"It's funny," Remy commented, picking up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and raising it to his lips.

"All it means," said his father, "is that we're winning the war—why else would they give one of their best navigators the time off? Isn't that right, son?"

Remy took another gulp of champagne, the lights in the great room suddenly brighter than he had remembered, the dresses of the women more vivid and reflective. He frowned, muttered, "Excuse me," and walked away.

He wound his way through the crowd, a few people touching his arm, saying his name, but he ignored them. His father could make excuses for him later. He set his glass down on a side table and ascended the stairs to the second floor, could  _feel_  eyes on him; the main focus as he fled.

"A real man of war," his brother would say, or something like it, everyone within earshot would all share a good laugh at his expense again.

Remy made it to his room, closing the door behind him and pushing the lock for no other reason than habit; no one would come after him. He knew that.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled out his phone. He had messaged some people when he got back to Earth a few days ago; some friends he'd had before the war. Remy tried not to be bothered that no one had answered him, realizing that they had been friends before he left—had gone to school together, played together as children—but they weren't anymore.

He couldn't be too surprised. There was nothing left holding them together; no commonalities other than the things they used to do together. He swallowed when he heard a swell of laughter from downstairs.

He hadn't talked to Porthos since they'd gotten off the shuttle on Earth. He knew Porthos lived near him; moved in the same social circles as his family. He had heard of him before they'd enlisted, had perhaps even met before. Remy didn't remember and Porthos had never said anything if they had.

He called Porthos, standing up and looking out his window at the late afternoon sunshine. He paced back and forth, rubbing his temple with one hand and trying to drown out the sound of chatter from down below. Porthos' phone rang and rang and rang, and Remy was just about to give up, hang up before he was tempted into leaving a message, when suddenly someone said, "Hello?"

Remy stopped walking. "Hey."

"What is it?" Porthos asked, the usual flat tone to his voice.

"I'm bored as hell," he said. "Let's do something."

There was a pause, and Remy heard a female voice on the other side, just a quiet murmur. Porthos sighed. "Fine."

Remy licked his lips, began to pace again as he said, "There's an art gallery on 17th."

"Ace," said Porthos. "Yeah, I've been there. I'll be down there in about twenty minutes."

He hung up before Remy had a chance to say anything else, but he didn't care. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and opened his bedroom door.

Eric was just on the other side, hand poised as though to knock. "Where are you going?" he asked as Remy picked up his wallet and slipped it into his pants.

"Out," he said, striding past Eric toward the stairs. "With a friend."

"You don't have any friends."

Remy paused, turned back to Eric, who was just standing there watching him, all short hair and big eyes; Angel, their mother called him. Didn't matter if he was two and in diapers, or twenty with a penchant for stealing; he was still her little angel.

"You don't have any friends," he said again, as though it hadn't sunk in the first time, and Remy felt the comment hit a bit too close to home to be a joke, especially with the way Eric's eyes watched him; big and blue and spiteful.

He strode forward quickly, gripping the front of Eric's shirt and shoving him back. Eric fell against the wall, mouth opening in surprise as his head bounced off the plaster.

Eric's mouth worked for a few seconds, face pale as he tried to find his breath. Remy just watched as he finally got it back, watched Eric give him one of the dirtiest looks he had ever seen. "You fucking  _psychopath_ ," he snapped. "Learn how to take a joke."

He pushed away from the wall, tried to shove past Remy to the stairs, but Remy caught his arm and didn't let go no matter how much Eric tried to yank it away.

"I'm going to tell dad," he said.

Remy just laughed in his face, knew that was one of the few things to get a rise out of Eric, and that hadn't changed in the time he'd been gone. Eric's face darkened, eyes narrowing. He looked one good spark away from spitting fire.

"Tell him," Remy said. "I won't be around for much longer, anyway."

Eric gripped Remy's wrist and squeezed, at the same moment pulling his arm free. "Yeah because you're a piss-poor navigator who's going to get himself killed."

He darted away, back down the stairs, before Remy could rough him up again. The little shit would have deserved it, too. He waited for a moment, gave Eric ample time to get away from the staircase before he followed. Again, he ignored the crowd around him, and when he exited through the front door, it was a relief to be out of the noise.

He made his way toward the gallery, knew it wouldn't take him more than a few minutes, but he just couldn't stand being in that house for any longer than he had to. He had enlisted for a reason; had tried to go to college, but couldn't find it in him to care about school no matter how hard he tried. He had passed his entrance exams well because he was smart and he followed orders, and when his parents told him to study, to work harder, he had done it.

When they had told him his options for the future; college or The Alliance or some minimum-wage office job, he had weighed his options. In the end, he had been influenced, had waited for his father to tell him what to do as always, then he had decided that was his best option as well.

He was a good navigator, he knew that; Porthos had even told him so once, months ago when they'd first met, when Remy had been trying to make friends and still stay at the top of his game. No matter what Eric said, he couldn't take away that truth. But then Remy thought of Abel, managing friends and being the best and favored by everyone, and he remembered again that he was good, just not good enough.

Porthos was late. Remy waited for a good ten minutes after his promised arrival, just sitting on the curb outside the gallery in his nice pants, the sun beating down on him. He felt the sweat bead along his face. One drop gathered at his neck, and Remy felt it slide down the length of his back beneath his shirt, when a pair of feet stepped into Remy's view.

"Hey," Remy said, standing up. Porthos nodded, expression bored as usual, cigarette dangling dangerously from his lips as he frowned and tried to scrape a piece of gum off the bottom of his shoe and onto the curb.

Remy could only look at him for a moment, though. There was a girl just behind Porthos with short red hair, looking bored and haughty with arms crossed over her chest.

"Who's she?" he asked.

The girl shot Remy a sharp look. "I'm Cass."

Remy ignored her, kept his eyes on Porthos, who crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe and sighed. "She's a friend. Are we going in or what?"

"I didn't know you were bringing someone," Remy said, trailing after Porthos to the door of the gallery.

Porthos sighed again, slanting Remy an unimpressed look. "So?"

"Well," he said, huffing and narrowing his eyes, "when I called, I meant that we could do—"

"Athos," Porthos said, pausing just inside the gallery as the girl came up to his side.

Remy blinked, forgot sometimes that Porthos didn't know his real name. Then again, he didn't know his either. It had just never made sense to tell him, though Remy might have wanted to. "What?"

"Shut up." Porthos gripped the girl by the waist and led her away, leaving Remy staring at the spot where he had been, at the hazy blue painting hanging on the wall.

He watched the two of them walk deeper into the gallery, the girl looking more chipper with Porthos' hand on her ass, leaning heavily into his side.

Remy swallowed and tore his gaze away, letting the sweat cool on his skin from the chill of the gallery. He began to walk around the edges of the room, looking at the paintings and trying to ignore the girl's giggles bouncing off the high ceiling. Remy had been in here before with his parents on numerous occasions, but his father had said that it was going downhill recently; too surrealist for his taste. Remy didn't understand that, didn't understand or appreciate art at all, really, even though both his mother and father had tried to instill it in him from a young age.

He wasn't sure how long he wandered around the gallery, trying and failing to keep his eyes away from the other two. Eventually, he paused at the sight of a statue; human-like in form with hands and arms shaped to look like long branches of trees and curled roots. Along the torso, long lines of spikes pointed outward, as though the rib cage had been opened up and pushed outward.

Remy frowned. The statue reminded him of Deimos, in a way he couldn't quite point out. Maybe it had something to do with the dagger-like points, or the short stature. His mind wandered to where Deimos was at that moment, of what he might be doing.

Then suddenly, Porthos was at his side, flicking his eyes over the statue before he turned away.

Remy glanced around. "Where's your friend?"

"She left," Porthos said, shrugging. "I'm bored out of my mind."

"We can—"

Remy never finished the sentence, Porthos opening up his jacket and pulling out his pack of cigarettes.

"I don't smoke," Remy said, but Porthos just rolled his eyes, opened up the pack to show him the rolled joints inside. "Oh."

"Come on." Porthos jerked his head toward the back and began to walk away. Remy glanced once more at the statue, and then followed.

Porthos took him to the bathroom, pushing open the handicap stall and slumping onto the toilet. Remy closed and locked the door behind them, watching as Porthos pulled out the first joint and got it lit.

He took a breath and held it in, eyes slipping closed. A few seconds later he said, "You want your own?" while a white cloud of smoke drifted around his head.

Remy didn't hesitate as he said, "No."

Porthos smirked, slipped a finger through Remy's belt loop to pull him closer. Remy stepped between Porthos' legs, watched as Porthos took another deep pull on the joint and then held it in, raising his eyebrows, just looking at him.

Remy sucked in a little breath, leaned down to put his face close to Porthos', eyes on his mouth. He didn't move any closer, though, never got a chance when Porthos laughed in his face, more heavy smoke surrounding them, making Remy lightheaded. He reared back, glaring, took the joint out of Porthos' hand and took a drag.

"You're…an asshole," he said as he exhaled a while later.

Porthos just kept laughing, shoulders shaking as he got to his feet and leaned back against the wooden divider between stalls.

"So who was that? Your girlfriend?"

Porthos snorted, took the joint back. "Nope."

Remy frowned and stared hard at the toilet bowl, thinking. "What's your name?"

He glanced up when Porthos laughed, so handsome and arrogant and cold that Remy had to look away again. "Shit, you're a lightweight."

"I meant your real name," he said, taking another pull, tip glowing orange.

Porthos didn't answer, ignored him as though Remy hadn't said anything. For a moment, Remy wanted to ask again, just keep asking until Porthos told him, but that shit never worked with Porthos; the more Remy talked, the more he pulled away. So he stayed quiet.

They smoked in silence for a while, lighting another joint and passing it back and forth. Remy watched Porthos sag against the wall, his eyelids drooping.

"Have you had a good break?" Remy asked because with him and Porthos, he hadn't ever handled the silence well.

Porthos shrugged, said, "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah." Remy hesitated, watched Porthos' lips pucker around the rolled paper. "I don't want to go back."

"Too bad," Porthos said. "Why'd you sign up if you don't want to be there? Too dumb for college?"

Remy glared. "I went to college," he said. "I dropped out."

He couldn't tell if Porthos was surprised. Hell, most days Remy was lucky if he could accurately decipher whether Porthos was happy or ready to punch a wall. Porthos didn't give him any more clues when he spoke. All he said was, "Huh."

Silence again, but it didn't last for long when Remy took the joint back, watching the end burn for a moment before taking a drag. "I'm not dumb."

The look Porthos shot him at that was painfully easy to interpret as one of amusement. "No," he said, and Remy wasn't sure if he was imagining the note of mockery or not.

Remy glanced down, didn't take the weed when Porthos tried to pass it back to him. He crossed his arms over his chest, head a little light, but he wasn't high enough to lose his anger.

"Did I hurt your feelings?" Porthos asked, and this time the ridicule was obvious.

"Fuck off," Remy said, fumbling with the lock on the door. "I'll see you on the ship."

He got the door unlocked, but couldn't bring himself to open it when Porthos said, "You want me to kiss and make it better?"

Remy met Porthos' cool gaze, could feel his cheeks flushing. Porthos lifted the joint to his mouth with one hand, smoothed the fingers of his other along the collar of Remy's shirt, thumb brushing against the hollow of his throat.

Remy's gaze dropped to Porthos' lips again, watched them curl upward just a bit before Remy plastered himself against Porthos' front and kissed him.

Porthos smiled wider, lips stretching against Remy's, then the hand at Remy's neck stroked his hair, clenching down hard at the back, tilting his head up. Remy gasped just as Porthos opened his mouth, hot smoke curling past Remy's lips. He inhaled, had to grip the front of Porthos' shirt as his head swam and he pulled away to breathe.

Porthos chuckled, hand still clenched tight in Remy's hair, lips red and glistening. Remy pushed up again, felt his hair pull uncomfortably against Porthos' grip, but he didn't care. He met Porthos' lips clumsily, reaching up to cup both hands around Porthos' jaw, slipping his tongue past Porthos' lips to taste him.

Porthos let it happen, participating just a little with his hand still in Remy's hair, thumb sweeping lazily back and forth against the back of his head. Remy slid his hands to Porthos' neck, pulling him closer, reveling in the fact that Porthos allowed it to happen.

He pressed closer, licking at Porthos' teeth and tongue, pulling back just a bit to nip at his lips before pushing forward again. He dropped one hand from Porthos' neck to his stomach, slipping his fingers beneath his shirt to feel hot, tight skin.

Then suddenly, Porthos pushed him away.

Remy blinked, dazed, gaze still fixed on the flushed red of Porthos' lips. "What?"

"I dropped my joint," Porthos said, looking down at the floor.

"So?" Remy leaned up again, tried to put his mouth on Porthos', but he pushed him away again, frowning.

"I need to get going," he said, and then suddenly he was shunting Remy aside to get the door open.

"Oh." He watched Porthos pause in front of the bathroom mirror, putting his hair to rights. "What are you doing now?"

Porthos shrugged as they entered the gallery again, didn't look at Remy. "Stuff."

Remy swallowed. He and Porthos exited through the front door, Porthos lighting up a cigarette as soon as they were on the sidewalk.

"So…." Remy said. The thought of going back to his house, of facing his father, or Eric, made his stomach clench.

"I'll see you," he said, blowing smoke toward Remy's face before he began to walk away.

Remy stepped after him, then stopped himself, opened his mouth to call after him, but Remy only had one name to call him, and he wished that Porthos hadn't been so cold, wished that he had given Remy something else to call him, something real.

But all he had was, "Porthos."

He slowed, but didn't quite stop. Then he turned, walking backward up the sidewalk, cigarette twitching between his lips as he said, "Athos."

Remy didn't have anything to say though, nothing that could make Porthos stay, so when he turned around again and walked away, Remy just watched him go. Then he turned the opposite direction and made his slow way back home.


End file.
